


No Closer Orbit

by JadeClover



Series: star-hewn colossi [5]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2018-12-14 05:01:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11776041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JadeClover/pseuds/JadeClover
Summary: A perpetually in-progress collection of ficlets and smaller oneshots focusing on Zarkon, Haggar, and the relationship between. See individual chapter notes for summaries, ratings, and warnings.





	1. head scratches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Revasnaslan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Revasnaslan/pseuds/Revasnaslan) on [tumblr](http://revasnaslan.tumblr.com/) prompted "head scratches" from a nonsexual intimacy prompt meme. General Audiences, no warnings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is pure, self-indulgent fluff.

"Is your work nearly complete?" He draws closer, peering down over the angled holopad.  
  
"Nearly." A quirk of her lips. His impatience must be visible, but he cannot be blamed for this—he has had not a single opportunity to speak with her over the past seven quintants without business putting itself in the way, and now that she has agreed to be here—the two of them alone, but with nothing to draw their attention—he longs for it to be _just_ them. The work left at the door, if one will... despite the fact that the work has already moved in and taken up occupancy on his bed.  
  
_His_ side of the bed. He will not be able to lie down until she moves.  
  
He sits, but she does not raise her head from the holopad, not even as his careless motion jostles her. From alongside, he peers down at her, though at this angle all he sees is the sigil on her hood—a very studiously working sigil.  
  
Said sigil takes perhaps five more doboshes before she reports, "I am done," and sets the holopad aside.  
  
He _is_ concerned about the matter of her work, for all he may seem despairing of it. "Your plans continue apace?"  
  
"Yes. The samples arrived in good condition and responded well to stasis protocols."  
  
"Good." These tests of hers will open the doorway to even greater advancements than she has already achieved.  
  
And now, there is silence. It is the kind of silence that is comfortable—no need to speak, no sense that it is lacking. Moments pass, long ones; she draws her knees up and rests her chin on them. He merely maintains his position, settling into the kind of quiet contentment he had craved, until suddenly she moves, without the slightest warning tipping herself to fall against his side.  
  
He blinks, startled at first and then bemused. ( _He is glad he had already removed his armor, because here he feels_ warmth.) The corners of his lips turn up just a fraction, because if she can be this loose and uninhibited—( _carefree, if he dares_ )—then this is a truly rare moment indeed.  
  
Her hood had come askew in her topple and the subsequent slide against him. He pauses, hand hovering, and when her stillness grants permission he hooks his claws under its edge and pulls it back.  
  
( _Even rarer that she allows this. Surely mere quintessence samples could not put her in such a fine mood._ )  
  
Her ear twitches as it is exposed to open air. He hesitates, but only briefly, then takes a chance in carding his claws through her hair.  
  
The ear flattens back—she is less inclined to accept this.  
  
Another angle, then, because he knows she does not suffer her hood to be removed unless she is willing to be touched. With the knuckles—( _as the claws would only tear and draw blood, an abhorrent thought_ )—he presses them to her scalp and rubs. Tension coils, but only for a moment, and then she loosens completely, her small form pressing further into him.  
  
He cannot restrain a small rumble, one of happiness but also triumph. It is rare to find something that will relax her so thoroughly. He continues the motion, a slow, gentle scratching and rubbing of his knuckles against her scalp, and she knows he is taking full advantage of the opportunity to see her made boneless and content, but at this point, she will not complain.  
  
A small, throaty breath from her, and his lips twitch. He still has not overcome the novelty of this. Evidence suggests ( _though her pride will never confirm_ ) that time has shifted her instincts to the point they seek to express a Galra's rumbled vocalizations, this one decidedly resemblant of a purr. A pity her respiratory system has not adapted as well.  
  
She sinks closer to him, and every degree of her relaxation is evident. So, too, does he feel the point when her breathing reaches a certain rhythm, the energy that never leaves her finally leeching from her muscles. Truly relaxed, then, to the point where she cannot think. ( _This is something only he can do for her, and if that has become a point of pride, he will never admit it._ )  
  
Perhaps, quiet and content like this, she may even fall asleep.  
  
She does not, of course. That is no surprise. After a point, she sits up, draws away, and replaces her hood. She is still _Haggar,_ and Haggar does not appreciate soft touch or gentle affection.  
  
( _Except when she does._ )  
  
At last, she vacates his side of the bed, allowing him to lie down. She rolls over to her side and tangles herself in his blankets, and while her tolerance for touch may be exhausted, once he is under the covers she curls close enough to brace her bare feet against his thigh—a small contact, but one she can always bear. A single point of connection, and that is enough.  
  
Despite her resistance to touch, she still sleeps close that night. He wakes in the morning to find she has shifted closer in her sleep, her forehead tucked to his chest, and for the next varga it takes her to wake, he finds himself distinctly disinclined to move.


	2. shoulder rubs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [@lotors-saltwife](https://lotors-saltwife.tumblr.com/) on tumblr prompted "shoulder rubs" from a nonsexual intimacy prompt meme. Teen and Up, warning for casual discussion of murder and the intent to test mind control on an unwilling subject.

A wave of her hand and the glyph deactivates, dimming now that the scan is complete. She disappears around the console to find the results already scrolling down the screen, a solid block of numbers and codes. So many times has she performed this particular test that it is second-nature to pick out the ones she needs, the figures that reveal what the rest of the data only confirms. And... his quintessence levels? They are... _adequate_ now. The imbalance has been resolved to the point at which natural regulation will again suffice.  
  
A glance at her emperor. He is still seated on the examination table, his torso bared of both armor and undersuit ( _as was necessary to ensure the scan's accuracy_ ), and he is every inch a surly patient. Though he takes pains to hide it—his own reputation still vital to him, even when they are alone—his duties weigh on his mind. Emperors never rest, after all, and he finds her insistence on his health an unfortunate distraction.  
  
Her lord does not understand the nature of his quintessence systems as she does. Where he thinks her overcautious, she will assert that this caution is wholly warranted. His very life is a tangle of unexplainable magical forces and still-experimental science, and that cannot be taken lightly.  
  
She simply does not want him to die. At the heart of it, neither does he, so he submits to her tests.  
  
Walking closer, she is in truth examining a piece of equipment—( _specialized, for precision quintessence scanning; it is cycling down from its efforts as it should be_ )—but she does not ignore the opportunity to cast her emperor a sidelong glance. His narrowed eyes, the set of his jaw—that cannot be from the cold of the room alone, nor even from the usual stressors of his station.  
  
Breaking a silence filled only with the white-noise humming of machines, she asks, "What troubles you?"  
  
A pause, but he knows better than to dodge the question. Honesty is their language and disclosure is a part of that.  
  
A low, growling rumble admits his reluctance, but he tells her, "A commander is making himself a nuisance."  
  
He does not name this commander, but she knows the one. Passing back around him, she moves almost on instinct to reach up and lay a hand on his shoulder, finding the bare skin between plating. A small tensing of her fingers directs it, and the brief current of magic she supplies will help to loosen his muscles. ( _She is generous tonight. Rarely will she use her magic for what she considers a luxury. Rarely will she touch him so freely, so easily._ )  
  
"Then why does he still draw breath?" she asks, as commanders who displease her emperor rarely survive long after the fact.  
  
At her touch he had straightened sharply, and he is visibly resisting the urge to turn to her. Nevertheless, the pulse of her magic has drawn a weight from his shoulders ( _though not nearly enough for her liking_ ). She drops her hand and continues to her console.  
  
"He is the most efficient commander to fill that post in two centuries," her lord says. As ever, he is distinctly unimpressed with her willingness to terminate his soldiers. Still, he has threatened to have enough killed for _her_ sake that he cannot complain when she responds in kind.  
  
She pauses at the console, the endless stream of results scrolling before her, but she finds them frustratingly unreadable. They are not beset by any error—this fault is in her own focus. Her thoughts are drawn continually away, back to her emperor and the tightness of his shoulders and the worries that live and breathe under his skin. She knows already—attempting to concentrate on this data will be futile.  
  
Her eyes narrow, but it is only at her own resistance to matters left unfinished. Without a word, she returns to the table and climbs neatly onto it behind him. ( _That is the only way she will be able to_ reach _._ )  
  
He does start to turn now, the confusion evident, but she does not allow him time to speak. "Give him to me, sire," she says. "I will ensure he keeps to behavior befitting his position."  
  
Her hands return to his skin, to the muscled space between neck plating and shoulder plates. A firm touch, a concentration of magic. A brief moment of tension in him before the muscles respond. ( _Still not relaxed enough. How much can one commander trouble him?_ )  
  
( _It is not merely one commander. It never is. It is his entire Empire, compounded into a burden that rests neatly upon his shoulders._ )  
  
His ears swivel, but he remains silent through the sensation of touch and magic, more focused on sorting out the meaning of her statement and following it to ( _one of_ ) its logical conclusions.  
  
"...You have made progress on your mind control protocols?"  
  
 _Mind control_ —such a simplistic way to put it. The matter truly consists of dozens of adjacent functions and theories, not all of them solely pertaining to the mind, but yes, she has made progress.  
  
Adjusting the press of her hands, she applies another small flow of magic. With a sharp inhale, he relaxes further, his breath echoing with the traces of contentment he cannot hide.  
  
"Progress enough to test it," she says. "Though I would not be disappointed if the subject was lost in the process."  
  
His ears flick, and like a malignant curse from legend, some of that tension returns. She grits her teeth, her own ears pinning back beneath her hood.  
  
"Do not let him die on purpose, Haggar. Waste is unnecessary."  
  
She steadily reapplies her efforts until his muscles loosen again, and then, almost sharply amused, she claims, "I would never."  
  
From his short, rumbled breath, this amuses him as well. Thankfully, it also serves to relax him.  
  
After that, she is content to be silent, and he as well. With the combination of touch and magic, she continues to work the coiled stiffness from his shoulders, the vague, easy rumbles in his breath telling just how much it contents him, the sharper ones revealing when she loosens a particularly stubborn knot of tension. The magic helps—does most of the work, in fact, as she has never done well with touch alone. ( _The heat of his skin against her palms is... not uncomfortable, merely a sensation she is not accustomed to._ )  
  
She at last judges him suitably relaxed ( _or at least, as relaxed as is possible for an emperor who works ten quintants straight_ ) and draws away from him, hopping down from the table. As she goes, he casts her a sidelong glance, ears flicking, but he does not speak.  
  
He does not thank her for this, because she does not want him to. ( _He knows her well._ )  
  
Returning to her console, she begins categorizing the results of the scans, the last traces of touch still tingling against her palms. While she lets the data commit itself to the server, he is drawing his undersuit back up and beginning the task of replacing his armor.  
  
"Shall I have the commander we discussed sent to you?" His voice is far from the taut near-growl of before; now she can hear the muted void of the tension that once was there. ( _And with that comes a sharp, private satisfaction. She almost smiles._ )  
  
A nod. "I will not be careless." And she means this. It will be a task to determine just which of her fledgling methods of control or influence to test, as if the subject is meant to survive and return to duty better than before, she must be circumspect. He will not die, though—she will see to that.  
  
Her emperor stands now, the last of his armor in place. "Your tests are all complete?" She knows that for what it is—a slightly less petulant way of asking, _May I go now?_  
  
A flicker of uncharacteristic warmth at that, of something like amusement. "Yes. You may go."  
  
He does not flee the room—she would not dare accuse him of that—but it is still only moments before all that remains of him is the sound of the door echoing in the silence.  
  
Now alone, she keys in the commands for this chamber to return to dormancy. With any luck, his quintessence levels will hold and she will not need to examine them again soon. She departs herself after that, but where he would have turned left in the hall, in the direction of the command center, she turns right, deeper into her labs, toward the site of some of her more specialized projects. That is not where she had planned to go after this, but her plans do change.  
  
She has work to prepare for, after all—a commander to receive.  
  
 _Mind control._ Such a simplistic way to put it, but it is not entirely inaccurate.


	3. watch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zarkon watches Haggar sleep. General Audiences, no warnings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written in the middle of the night when I _should_ have been sleeping, and I feel like that kind of shows? But whatever, it fits the tone. Anyway, this is pure softness, so enjoy!

Her eyes, at this late varga of the night, are closed... but they are _never_ closed, not unless some aspect of the universe has gone drastically wrong, and his chest clenches at the thought but he smooths it out, spreads the feeling apart until nothing is left, until he loses it in the dark.  
  
He breathes easy. She does the same.  
  
Inhale. Exhale. Repeated so quickly—her species breathes so much faster than Galra. Long has it troubled him, fascinated him, both in equal measures. He could watch her for vargas; she may be a mystery, but not one he has ever wanted to unravel.  
  
Has she ever slipped into the dark of a nightmare while she sleeps? Millennia have gone by, but he is still not certain. Her ears, bared from the cover of her hood, twitch, angling from beneath a fall of white hair—and they twitch again, twice more. It means she dreams. What of?  
  
More that once has she used her magic to let him into her mind, into her very thoughts, and she to merge directly into his. In those moments he understood as if they were his own the bright lines of her thinking, yet somehow, even after that, he still cannot fathom what she might dream of. Is it pleasant? Will she recall it?  
  
Her chest expands and contracts with a heavy huff of breath, one that would shiver with deep resonance if she was Galra, and she curls smaller, tucking her limbs close, drawing her knees up to her chin. After a tick, she settles, as still as if she had never moved, but the blankets are twisted around her now, and she has coiled her body so small that Zarkon could wrap himself around her if he tried. The idea sticks in his mind, but it dismisses easily. She is too like him, too likely to wake with her claws first if startled.  
  
He shifts closer, a hand raising from the mattress. It is far too large in comparison to her, but that is an absurd notion and he gives it no attention. Without a sound he picks out strands of her hair, his fingers nimble, lifting them from where they had fallen against her face. He moves them away, yet after that, he wants to move them again, to feel her hair between his fingertips. Such a small, gentle touch—this one is allowed. She calls it _toying_ when she speaks of it; he calls it an _indulgence._  
  
A pleased rumble echoes in his chest, too instinctual for him to remember to quiet it, but she does not wake. Her ears twitch, and she dreams on.  
  
The stars beyond the viewport, an entire universe at his command, could not hold his interest so strongly tonight. Rarely does she sleep alongside him, and is it any surprise his own sleep is lessened when she does? Staying awake like this does not drive him any further toward exhaustion; the vargas he slept before were enough, and the hour grows so early that this would be less an insomnia and more a simple early awakening ( _unlike Haggar, who will refuse to drag herself out of bed until the last possible moment_ ).  
  
A gentle coiling of a strand of hair; a glance over the novelty of closed eyes, a slackened face. His own ears flick with another small, soft sound from him. It still does not wake her. Good.  
  
She told him before she does not mind his watching ( _and he has woken to her eyes on him many times_ ). It is a habit, a fond one; it ties together centuries, millennia, moments linked in their sameness, memories held close in their comfort. She is his wife, his mate, his closest friend, and she is such a gentler creature when she sleeps. She _trusts._ Can there be any greater show of it than to allow this vulnerability in the presence of another?  
  
Wary eyes have closed, curled shoulders loosened. Even she must rest, as brilliant and powerful as she is.  
  
( _When she says she sleeps deeper near him, that is how she describes a love and trust words have never managed to encompass._ )  
  
He grows too thoughtful, perhaps, in this morning's quiet, a silence so still and complete he could listen and memorize her every too-fast breath. The idea of turning to the chronometer is abhorrent—thus, he can only guess at the time, but it ticks on, inevitable. It is still early yet, but she will soon wake.  
  
No matter. Like no other universe exists but this room, this bed, these two curled, resting forms, he will do as he did for vargas before—simply lie here and watch her, because no more needs doing, no empire needs tending now.  
  
They are alone. They are together.  
  
She is asleep, and as he watches her, he finds peace in that.


	4. early

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haggar falls asleep with her lord, but she must wake early to attend to a matter. General Audiences, no warnings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to A) write fluff and B) finish something, and this isn't much but at least it accomplishes my goals.
> 
> This was what I wrote to entertain myself while waiting for s5 to drop, so it's only fitting that I finally get it posted in the week or so before s6.

The silken sheets are soft yet laced with chill, and she curls into them like no greater comfort exists. The open air prickles over her skin—the _awareness_ of it, not its own tepid temperature, and she winds herself tighter into her lord's bedclothes, her ears pinned back as she tangles in further. What little skin remains bared protests even the faintest circulation of air, her too-sensitive limbs crawling with discomfort until she settles her mind under the sheer weight of her will.  
  
Impatient, her ears unfold and angle to track sound:  
  
Her lord walks barefoot, tired enough his claws occasionally scrape the floor, moving on the opposite side of the bed. Cloth rustles in his hands, but it soon disappears; a panel in the wall hisses shut, and his footsteps pad nearer.  
  
Finally, _finally,_ the mattress dips with his weight, jostling her and deepening a valley as he shifts toward the center.  
  
His body's heat reaches her, and only then does she unwind from her labyrinth of sheets to tuck herself against his side, curling her folded legs between them and pressing her forehead to his chest when he turns. Warmth seeps from his bare skin into hers, bleeding in deep and bringing her mind to a heavy halt.  
  
Her eyes fall shut at last, and she tracks the shifts of his muscles as he settles further, slotting herself opportunistically closer when he finally stills. Her lord breathes slow, each inhale and exhale even and rhythmic enough to reach in and replace the rest of her thoughts, his familiar scent filling the gaps where the day's minutiae once lived.  
  
He pulls the covers around them both, sealing the warmth. Her head already swims, her consciousness so eager to plunge her directly into sleep, but she _resists._ Such a rare and precious comfort must be savored a moment more.  
  
...And yet another matter still lingers, a ghost in her mind, familiar and haunting for all she would rather simply banish it and be done. She works too much—or so her lord would say. Perhaps he judges her well if formulas still scroll through her thoughts long after she darkened and dismissed her screens for rest.  
  
The idea of breaking such an easy peace _crawls,_ but this is _important._ "Sire."  
  
A faint rumble shivers through the chest she leans against. "Hm?"  
  
"When you wake, wake me as well."  
  
Another rumble, this one questioning. "...So early?"  
  
"Yes. A project requires my attention as soon as possible."  
  
Like this, her lord is so expressive, all barriers stripped away along with his armor. Low, rolling rumbles hitched with faint ticks ripple through his chest—trepidation. "You are not known to wake early."  
  
 _"Sire."_  
  
Amusement, now, in the tones of a voice roughened by sleepiness. "Yes, Haggar."  
  
His hand rests over her waist, a broad, familiar weight, and her ears flick, shifting until they settle, satisfied. The last of the tension in her shoulders finally unknots and slips free.  
  
Her lord curls closer, tucking his chin over the top of her head, and now her thoughts fade out entirely— _almost._ Idly, she counts the ticks between his every inhale and exhale. The sound of air cycling through his lungs in the moments between is little but a whisper—faint, rough, but audible clearly while she lies so close to his chest.  
  
Four ticks until the exhale, on average... then five...  
  
His breathing slows.  
  
Her thoughts go quiet...  
  
The next she knows, the pads of her lord's fingers trace the markings down her face, brushing back her hair at the end of the motion, and at the instinctual, perturbed twitch of an ear, he murmurs, his voice little but a low, easy rumble, "You _did_ ask to be woken..."  
  
She drags in a deep breath, bracing, and almost protests when his hand draws away.  
  
"It is too _early,_ sire," she mutters, but before he can mention again the apparent folly of her request, she wrenches herself upright, swaying in place as she reaches for balance, forcing narrowed, blinking eyes to adjust to the room's meager light.  
  
The heavy shroud of sleep still hangs over her, and from within it she sees no reason not to let herself tilt forward, leaning into her lord and propping against his chest as though no other force in the universe remains to keep her from falling—( _literally_ )—back asleep.  
  
A small rumble echoes beneath his skin. She angles an ear as his claws work gently through her sleep-mussed hair.  
  
...But now, in the depths of her thoughts, the formulas return, details of her project climbing purposefully to the fore.  
  
Good.  
  
( _But she will remain here, just for a tick more..._ )  
  
"Yes," she admits, remembering she intended to say _something_ to answer his dubious comment. The morning remains far too early ( _and this comfort far too enticing_ ), but... "I did ask."  
  
( _Just a tick more._ )  
  
She closes her eyes...


	5. kill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zarkon and Haggar contemplate killing each other, and the idea pleases neither of them. Teen and Up, warning for discussion of murder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one’s really short, but I love it so much.

"I think of killing you," she says, "at times."  
  
His gaze seeks hers.  
  
The words have all the cadence of an admission, a confession, though the tone reaches for an ease and nonchalance too real and deep to falsify. There she stands, caught as always between a coldness chilling her to the core and layers of emotion strong enough to bend the universe.  
  
The subtleties of his stare turn pointed.  
  
Her shoulders curl higher, the slight shifts of her face betraying ears pinned back beneath her hood. Gold eyes gleam, sharp. "Not with _intent._ A thought exercise."  
  
He takes to studying her, and she turns away, her gaze lost deliberately among the stars.  
  
Is he meant to comprehend this? Is he meant to understand the workings of her mind so easily?  
  
He does.  
  
She would kill him if she wanted to—this, he cannot doubt. He knows her, just as he knows no force in the universe could turn her from her desires to _keep_ him alive, whole and well and breathing. What, then, could change it...?  
  
He could.  
  
He holds her trust in his hands, and if he moves wrong, if he grips too tightly, he will break it. Nothing will repair it. Trust is not her natural state, but she trusts _him,_ and she trusts him with her trust to the point no mere accident will shatter what lies between them, not when she _believes_ in his intent to preserve it.  
  
Betrayal.  
  
But he would never betray her, would sooner destroy himself and the universe both. She knows this. She knows it, she _knows—_  
  
Haggar is not inclined to trust, but to caution, to suspicion, to fears too loud to ignore for all she hides them, to emotions burning too terribly for skin and cold to contain them. He knows her, and he can guess like the ideas are his own what manner of pondering might dig in hooks and spark a thought exercise late at night, when the universe is too vast around her, beliefs made only of numbers and probabilities not built for offering comfort.  
  
He thinks of killing her as well—but by accident, a hand slipped, strength misjudged, her presence missed.  
  
It is his greatest fear.  
  
A handful of footsteps take him closer, spanning the gap between them. Her head angles to track him in the peripheral, but she remains where she stands, disinclined to move away. ( _Trust._ )  
  
He loops an arm around her, pulling her close, fingers spread at her collarbone and his palm still enough to feel her heart. A soft huff from her, almost Galran in its tones, as though suffering his comfort is an annoyance she deigns to bear—but she relaxes, softens and bends closer, and she leans her head against him, her shoulders unknotting...  
  
There they stand. Silence reigns.  
  
Her words fade, the moment passes, and nothing changes.  
  
Neither falls by the other's hand.


End file.
